This is the Hope Sandoval circa ’94 that today I would marry in a New York-Adderall minute. Goodness to the graciousness of all existence and wonder, this darling is a number of ideals incarnate. I find amusing the lackadaisical reaction of the jaded audience; I guess they were all waiting for Pearl Jam and Eddie Vedder’s vowel abuse. Also, the way that she is holding one arm with the other behind her back is a classic tell-tale sign of introversion; I should know as an introvert who has to play an extrovert in the classroom and at the bar. Oh, Hope, let us go back to ’94 and simply sit in the same room together, passionately ignoring each other while surreptitiously studying every move.

Postscript: there is a waitress at one of my local restaurants that reminds me of Hope. That could be why I shamelessly flirt with her every damn time I see her. Though the gap in age is too great for any serious consideration, her sultry eyes, sharp smile, dark hair, shapely figure, and crooked teeth (not really like Hope in most of the aforementioned ways; I may just enjoy flirting with her) bring a bitter man like I more joy than I find in most of my day-to-day activities. This is why I could never have been a priest. Sorry, Fr. ____________; even you told me that I was running from God by not entering the seminary, still, beautiful women are necessary for my well-being. [I recall one homily in which a radtrad priest intimated that those who may feel called to the priesthood but do not pursue it may lead not only themselves but the ones they love to hell.] If I wanted to work with a group of loudmouth harpies, effeminate priests, and masculine nuns (modern Catholic Church) for “social justice” and open borders and niceness,  I would have become a social worker–Lord knows Mississippi needs ’em.  As it now, I would rather study classical Latin (not ecclesiastical), read pagan philosophers, memorize decadent Decadent French poetry, drink more bourbon than I should, and think about the three to five women that I should have married (not all at once, mind you, wags) but did not because I was a coward–mostly because I was afraid of committing mortal sin simply by being in a relationship. [Note to reader: if you have never experienced a certain theological strain of Catholicism, that preceding dilemma will ring hollow to you.] That is the real shame: I wish I had gotten married back when I was still idealistic and flexible (time-wise/career-wise/location of living-wise, not morally or, um, physically). Now, after all, I could care less if the world burns–I just want to be left alone with my books, Internet connection, and bourbon. Granted, if the world burns, I may lose two to three of those.

Why the hell not? True:

One of the most agonizingly beautiful covers: